One Bad Code
by Cakie Cat
Summary: Turbo was not programmed for failure, and so came his fall from grace. Prequel, dark themes.
1. Pixel by Pixel

Turbo growled and clenched his fists as a surge of pain scrambled his nerves. "Damn!" He cursed for the first time. His eyes widened as the word left his mouth, and suddenly it hit him that he was no longer bound by the censors of an arcade game accessible to children. "Damn, damn, damn!" He repeated. It felt good.

He let his back hit the wall as he clutched his head, disoriented. His departure from that wretched mistake of a racing game did not leave his body or mind unscathed: Turbo was clever and tricky, but he was not physically apt for the act of escape. He was fortunate to have discovered a glitch in the system before diving head-first into the copy-cat game—for it was a copy of his game, nothing more—so that he would not have to bear dissection by the hands of a cruel mechanic. Turbo had been angry to the point of mania, and only now did he realize that his actions would have ended in his termination were it not for the secret escape.

The others had not been so fortunate. He groaned at the raw, stinging memory—he had ruined over a dozen homes, settings and characters. If they weren't scrambling for food and shelter at the station, they were surely dead. The copy-cat game was made inoperative and the original was labeled defunct, he recalled. Termination had followed shortly after, without notice, and not everyone had fled in time.

Turbo had given everything up the moment he had decided to defect, but that had been distinct from the taste of stomach acid gurgling in his mouth—the taste of death and defeat. He choked and spluttered on his own vomit. At present he was friendless, homeless and in severe pain—he had barely escaped being trampled by the onslaught of fleeing civilians. Turbo braced the wall for support, still heaving. He had witnessed the destruction of the copy-cat world first-hand, cube by cube, pixel by pixel, and had been helpless to stop it. There was nothing left for him now, he realized. He could not even beg for food at the station, even if it had been in his nature to do so, for he would only be captured and imprisoned in the station's underground barracks. He would have to go into hiding.

He had never felt weaker and more broken in his life. With a wounded heart, he stumbled over to a darker, more deserted area. It was sure to be safe, for it had been discarded and forgotten by the guards of Game Central Station, cornered by older, obsolete games of zero value. It barely registered in his mind that this was where he belonged, rotting in the depths of rejection, and not scheming for a future as he did now.

* * *

Turbo had always had an aggressive streak; a reputation for anger and jealousy that was naturally inclined to take the shape of malevolence. His closest companions had always known that some tragic event would befall the poor Turbo and knock him from his pedestal forever, but they had never imagined what hideous form the beast would take.

If his companions were alive, they would be shocked to find what had become of the racer. No one would have expected their glorious hero to sneak into Sugar Rush, the replacement racing game, disguised in a plain guard uniform he had robbed from the station underground. No one would have expected the hero to persuade the residents of the new game, unaware of Turbo's legacy, that he was benign and agreeable, when, in truth, every step he took was preceded by undue fear and paranoia. No one would have expected the hero to take such drastic measures of self-preservation and to later allow greed and arrogance to rule him once he felt safe in his position—for he was a hero, and heroes did not succumb to such vices.

"I can only offer you my counsel and expertise, King Candy. I am far too old a program to race, but with my advisement, I can guarantee that your game will blossom." He lied. He was no longer a hero, after all.

"And why should I need your counsel? Why should any game character need advice on how to run what he or she is already programmed to do?" Candy observed the racer from his throne, majestic in the presence of his kingdom of candy, glitter and gold. The fool was arrogant, but thoughtful, and the racer feigned appreciation for his audience. Turbo offered him a smile.

"I can ensure that your game remains unharmed. You are programmed to race, but time is inescapable."

Candy nodded, considering it. "Your offer is interesting, but quite unnecessary. A new game attracts players simply because it is a novelty."

And suddenly, something changed. Turbo appeared absent, staring drearily at his fingers.

"My good man, do you know how old I am?" Turbo jerked his head upwards, his airy façade abruptly crushed. "For how long will you be the new game in town, Candy? How long until a new game is introduced into the system, stealing from you your rightful place in the spotlight?"

The king was silent. Turbo paused, but it had not fully registered in his mind that he had nearly revealed himself. He spoke more slowly, almost threatening the Sugar Rush king: "How long until you are shunned and ridiculed by the community, your title stripped and your game labeled defunct?" His tone was full of derision, and were it not for the great distance between the floor and the throne, the racer would have spat in the king's face.

Candy, for his part, was taken aback by the unspoken threat in the racer's voice. He narrowed his eyes, suspicious.

"You speak from experience?" He retorted, straightening his posture in preparation for an offense.

Turbo paused. Had he alienated the king? Possibly. He took a breath to calm himself. "I have been in this business for a very, very long time," he faked weariness. "I only wish you the best of success in the future."

"And once again, I must remind you that your efforts are helpful, but unnecessary—"

"I don't doubt the ability of your game to prosper on its own," he interrupted, growing impatient. "But you cannot win a race against time, Candy. You will age. You will be forgotten. Take advantage of the fact that you are new, for you will regret it in the future."

"And how, pray tell—"

"I can make sure that the players always consider you an option," he continued. "I can dissuade the players from pursuing other games."

Realization struck him like a knife to the throat. Candy jumped from his throne, incredulous. "You speak of sabotage!"

Turbo smiled, pleased that the Sugar Rush king had finally grasped the entirety of the situation.

"My good man, I speak of opportunity."

* * *

Turbo entered his new quarters in the Sugar Rush palace, basking in the afterglow of an enemy vanquished. While King Candy was too young and inexperienced to be considered a worthy foe, his compliance had encouraged the racer to adhere to his original plans. The encounter by itself had been his most thrilling endeavor in quite a while...He had essentially _frightened _the king into submission.

The king had agreed to his terms, granting him room and board and free dining. He had been so impressed, so intimidated by the racer, that he had even offered him a salary, to which Turbo had politely declined. He did not care for profit—he cared for racing. But he did not yet have a place on the track. To ask to be integrated into the main game would be to ask for termination. The king would not allow it, for he was aware of the risks. But it would not be the Sugar Rush king that would be the death of him—it would be the peering eyes of fellow games and station guards.


	2. The Pink and the Peasant

The following days did not find Turbo an unhappy man. After the initial paranoia regarding an imagined surprise attack had subsided, Turbo, without venturing outside the palace walls, had found it appropriate to observe and take note of the features of his adopted home. While he would never admit it, he could not help but be impressed by the game designer's creative ingenuity: He was, in fact, delighted to discover that his bed covers were made of taffy and his curtains a tart, red substance. Every other piece of furniture was cleverly composed of lollipops and gumdrops, and it pleased him.

More importantly, he reminded himself, progress was slow. He had predicted that his mission would be a mission of patience more than it was one of salvation, and it was only this morning that he had decided to move his next piece. But time was of the essence, and he had reasoned the prior evening that he could no longer afford to meander about the candy kingdom and possibly risk exposure to the outside world. For all of his caution, patience, and careful planning, Turbo was, more than anything, a token of paranoia.

"Racer," a voice spoke behind him. His insides bled with fear at the sudden noise, but, somehow, he managed to maintain some element of composure.

"Servant." Turbo smiled crookedly, his hands struggling to keep their place at his side. The servant's neck was bare and breakable. Turbo almost had the nerve to strangle him for the unwelcomed surprise.

"I knocked on the door. Is something wrong?" He was a simple thing, small and unassuming. Not a worthy enough adversary for the grand racer.

"I didn't hear anything. What do you want?"

"The king requests an audience with you."

"Perfect timing." He smiled earnestly. "I have a few things to address with your king."

Indeed, they had much to discuss. The servant boy proceeded to lead him to the opposite side of the palace, motioning to a set of double doors at the end of the corridor. "He wishes to speak to you in private, in his chambers." He made to turn, pausing midway to measure Turbo's figure as if weighing his worth: "You must be quite the person, racer."

Turbo frowned, mildly put off by his persistent use of the title 'racer'.

"More than you know, _peasant_," he snarled. The servant's eyes widened, confused by what he believed to be an unusual shift in the other's demeanor. But by the time he had turned around, the racer was gone.

* * *

"I am sorry to summon you on such short notice, but I have a confession to make." Candy eyed him, a tricky smile playing on his lips. "Secrets really are a burden, you know."

The racer tensed, his maniacal scheming suddenly put on hold. _There's a door behind me, a window on the far side of the room and a sliding door to my left, probably a bathroom…If I can manage to knock Candy over…_

But the king did not go on the offense. "I'd like you to meet someone."

He motioned to a ball of pink fluff at his feet.

"Guess who, racer." Again, Turbo nearly cringed at the given title, but resolved to say nothing. He eyed the small creature with suspicion, a vague idea taking shape in his mind…

"The heir to the throne, the sunshine of my life…"

The creature revealed itself, standing at its full height. 'It' was a little girl. A toddler, no less. Turbo's eyes widened slowly, hesitantly, as if in resistance to reason.

The king placed a gentle hand on the girl's head, his tone heavy with the weight of emotion. "Our future. My daughter."

"_What?_" Turbo's eyes shot open, his suspicions confirmed. _Fuck me_, he almost groaned.

"Da-da, I wanna be a r-racer too!"

"Not now, Vanellope." The king stroked her head, curling an absent finger around a strand of her hair. He turned his attention to his guest-turned-resident. "I did hire you for a reason, racer."

Turbo, for his part, was rendered stock-still by this revelation. He couldn't say anything, couldn't think. The king continued, unmindful of the racer's inner turmoil.

"Success may be a tempting offer to the common man, but I am a king, racer. A king in my own realm, yes, but a king nonetheless. It was, in fact, your offer of security that most interested me."

The little girl squirmed around, positively uncomfortable in her stuffy, pink dress.

"Not for my own benefit, no," he motioned to his daughter, stilling her, "but for_ her_ future."

Turbo wanted to leave. He didn't want to hear this. He needed to modify his plans, and he wished to agonize over this foul monkey wrench in the privacy of his own home. _Too late for home, _a voice spat back in his mind.

"She holds the title of queen, but at age three, I don't believe she will be doing any ruling just yet." He smiled warmly, his focus on the child. "I am not a racer. So why then, you are wondering, do I exist in this game if my function is not that of a guard or servant?" He held Vanellope's head protectively as he spoke: "My role is to serve as her guardian. My title of king is only temporary."

His eyes hardened as they shifted their attention from his daughter to Turbo. "My purpose is to raise this girl until she is deemed fit to rule, racer. She is meant to be the true sovereign of this kingdom, not I."

Candy spoke with what could only be described as admirable parental conviction, but Turbo did not care. His expression was blank, his posture slack, but, internally, the man was horrified.

"I wanted you two to become better acquainted." Candy was smiling again. "For I will die once she is queen, my purpose fulfilled. And it is Vanellope you will be serving, not I." He went down on one knee, gently prodding his daughter to move in Turbo's direction. "Go on, my love. He isn't a bad man. He will keep all of us safe, as promised."

And as Turbo awkwardly embraced the little girl—out of sheer obligation, not will, for his mind was a blank slate—he could not help but wonder how he would possibly go about taking control of this kingdom, now that a young life was at stake.


End file.
